Every Girl and Boy
by Asidian
Summary: St. Nicholas is coming, the children say. St. Nicholas is kind, and generous, and watchful. St. Nicholas keeps two lists of names, and every name, in all the world, is written upon them. The idea captures Jack's imagination: that his name, too, might be there among the others.


Author's Notes: For the anon on the kink meme who wanted newly-a-spirit!Jack seeing the children in Burgess preparing for Santa's visit and getting ready himself - only for Santa not to come.

I am a little fast and loose with the celebrations here, as far as historical accuracy goes. The decorations are mostly correct; the fact that North is believed in here and now isn't. I'm going with movie canon, and the implication that the Guardians started gaining followers after the Dark Ages, when really North shouldn't have been very popular until the mid-1800s.

* * *

Every Girl and Boy

* * *

On the first year, everything is new.

It is a surprise when Jack finds he can draw ice down into thin shards that hang from rooftops. He does not expect that, like magic, the seeds the townsfolk put into the ground will yield growing things, shoots and tendrils that creep outward day by day. He cannot imagine the taste of a tart upon his tongue, hot and rich and filled with blackberries, until he has swiped one from a windowsill.

All of these, and countless others – countless tiny pleasures – he learns for the very first time. But they are not all he learns.

He discovers what it is like to have his heart crushed when each demand that someone look at him grants no response. He grasps the pain of each plea – that they see him, please, just _see_ him – and the frustration of knowing that they will not be granted. He comprehends screaming until his voice is gone, until his face is slick with frozen tears, until his throat is raw and his eyes burn and he has spent the entire night railing at the moon. He understands the hollow longing when a mother sets a hand upon her daughter's shoulder or when a toddler is swept up in an embrace.

The world, Jack comes to see, is full of incredible things. And if it stings somewhere deep to know that he is not allowed them all, he manages by telling himself that the ones he _does_ have are enough—are more than enough.

The seasons change: from ice to flowers, from lush green grass to leaves of red. Each day, nature unfurls another secret. Now Jack learns that snow can be shaped into the form of a man. Now that the small orange flowers near the pond smell sweet and fragrant. Now that in the long days when the sun beats down hot and heavy, he is weaker, tired, less alert. Now that the harvest brings with it good food, a bounty that allows him, for the first time, to steal enough to eat his fill.

When the snows come again, this too is a surprise.

The return of winter, the cycle of the seasons, these are things he has not taken for granted. He revels in the cooler weather, in the return of his energy, in the great drifts of white. He skates bare-footed upon the pond, and he tempts the children into play when they should work instead. He learns that seeds put into the ground in winter do not bear plants, do not yield corn nor squash nor peas. Plenty is for warmer times, and Jack often goes without, as the townsfolk do.

The villagers begin to gather greenery from the woods, and this is as mysterious as all else has been. They select the branches that have held their hue despite the frost: evergreen and holly, sprigs of mistletoe for the windowpanes. They chop branches from trees, arrange them into intricate circles, hang them fresh and fragrant upon their doors.

His curiosity has the best of him; he lingers by windows to peer inside and see what they mean to do. He watches as ribbons are used to tie the mistletoe into bunches, observes how garlands are strung from berries, marks that the children put socks upon the foot of their beds.

He wishes to ask what it is all for. He wonders aloud at the songs he has never heard sung, at the candles lit upon the hearth. He hopes, as he always does, that someone will overhear, that something will change, that an answer will come.

In this, as ever, he is disappointed – and as ever, he makes the most of what he has.

Jack gleans scraps of knowledge in the conversation that drifts through open windows, and he eavesdrops as the villagers hurry home to seek shelter from the cold. St. Nicholas is coming, the children say. St. Nicholas is kind, and generous, and watchful. St. Nicholas keeps two lists of names, and every name, in all the world, is written upon them.

The idea captures Jack's imagination: that his name, too, might be there among the others.

He hardly dares to think it, at first. He hardly dares to hope. It seems too simple a solution, after the endless days and nights of this endless first year. But the children are adamant in their faith, so _certain_ in their conviction, and belief is such a very powerful thing.

It nestles into his thoughts like creeping ivy, and there it takes up root.

Jack has ridden the wind often enough to know that there are children beyond this village. He has heard talk of places far and away beyond these shores, though he has not yet ventured a flight long enough to see them. If this St. Nicholas can find homes so distant – can visit them all in a single night – can follow the lives and the deeds of so many people, in so many places, all at once – is it so very hard to think that he might notice one more boy in the streets of a tiny, snow-cloaked town?

For St. Nicholas, so it's said, watches every girl and boy. And who better to see him, than this man who sees all?

The idea will not leave him. It blooms inside like a flower in the sun, grows carefully and gradually, day by day. Jack becomes enamored of it, becomes giddy with the possibilities. He loses sleep with anticipation.

It occurs to him in the early morning hours on December the twenty-third, perched up in the tops of bare branches rimed with frost, that he is not prepared. The villagers have made ready, have laid out decorations to welcome St. Nicholas to their homes, and Jack has done nothing at all. He will have a visitor – his first ever—and he is not _prepared_.

The boy does not wait for the dawn. He finds that he cannot sit still – cannot silence the traitorous whisper in his mind that insists, illogically, that St. Nicholas will be offended and refuse to come. Perhaps it must be done in a certain way. Perhaps the man favors these things – this winter greenery, the ribbons, the candles.

Jack begins in the darkness before the sun has risen. He gathers holly and branches of evergreen. He sings the songs whose words he only half knows, humming where the lyrics have escaped him. He ties mistletoe together with long strips of tree bark, and he regrets that there are no ribbons to hand, for the decorations that the townsfolk make look much livelier for the single splash of color.

The boy has no garlands; he has no bows; he has no candles. He has no bed, that he might leave a sock upon its foot.

What he has, though, he has in abundance. And his ice, he swears, will be more than substitute enough for all the rest.

The ribbons he makes of frost, delicate and ethereal, infinitely fragile. It takes time and devotion, and he shatters three in his efforts, but in the end he has half a dozen, whole and lovely, as striking as the real thing. He strings his garlands with icicles – cuts thin strips of supple bark to hang between the trees before adorning them with shimmering crystal, and when he finishes, the afternoon sun makes them gleam.

He is at a loss for candles. The purpose is the flame, and he cannot craft something that will burn – could not light it, even if he did – for his touch is too chill, and all the wood available to him is fresh and green, far too damp to start a fire. In the end, he packs tapers of snow and inserts twigs into the top, to simulate an unlit wick. It is not all he wished it to be, but the afternoon grows late, and Jack is not yet finished.

He twists the evergreen and holly into two large wreaths – hangs one upon the tree where he intends to spent the night and the other on the highest bough that will take its weight. It will be the first thing St. Nicholas sees, when he arrives. It will show the man that he is welcome here – that he is expected.

In the last of the day's light, Jack surveys his work: glimmering and delicate, graceful and lovely. It is, the boy thinks, as good as any of the homes in the village, and at the realization, he is swept away by a swell of pride. The grin upon his face is unreservedly delighted; he laughs aloud, the sound ringing clear in the silence of the twilit clearing.

There is not much longer, now. St. Nicholas will be here, soon, and Jack's heart pounds in his chest at the very idea of it, at the promise that someone, before this night is through, will have come here for his sake and his alone. There is one more thing he has yet to do, however – one last trip he must make before his preparations are complete.

Jack leaves the pond before he takes flight; he will not jostle the decorations so newly perfected, cannot chance that they will be disturbed and need repairs. Instead he runs, fleet of foot and light of heart, until he reaches a place where the trees will shield his creations of ice. Then he lifts one arm into the air, staff held aloft, and leaps. The wind catches him, tumbles him end over end, and sweeps him away.

The light has almost gone when he arrives at the tiny clutch of houses, and the windows are bright with the flickering glow of lit fireplaces. The streets are empty, but within there is conversation and warmth, casual affection and laughter. Hands are held and hair is tousled; small children nestle close to their parents' sides. Dinner is brought to tables of rough-hewn wood – not much, for in this season there is never much – but Jack finds his gaze drawn to the sight, regardless, for even this little bit is more than he has. These simple pleasures, these small luxuries so taken for granted, infect him with the ache of longing.

But tonight, they do not paralyze him here, silent and alone. They do not force him to linger as he so often does. Tonight, even the tantalizing prospect of what he does not have – light and companionship, food and family and _love_ – can be set aside in favor of what is soon to be.

For tonight, St. Nicholas is coming. Someone will be here for _him_, and that makes all the difference.

The assurance is like a blanket clutched for comfort by a very young child, and Jack holds it close, cherishes the gentle glow of contentment. St. Nicholas is coming – and Jack will be prepared. He will make certain that everything is in order, ensure that his visitor is impressed enough to return. He may not have a bed to hang it from, but every child in town has a sock upon display, and Jack intends to have one, too. He cannot fathom what it might be for, but surely it is important. Perhaps St. Nicholas favors the garments, as he does the other displays.

There are no open windows in this season, not when the snow lies so thickly upon the ground – but Jack has learned, through practice and care, how to circumvent the problem. He has come through necessity to know the best ways to gain entry, to slip a hand inside and snatch unattended morsels left out to cool.

The boy selects a family preoccupied in the main room, distracted by their dinner: a straight-backed, bearded man and a kindly woman who are just sitting down to table with their daughter. Jack knows the girl; she is a timid creature with soulful brown eyes, a child who never allows herself to be tempted into wintry revels. They have not yet begun to eat, and Jack grins at his fortune, for he will have plenty of time, while they attend to their meal, to take what he needs.

He circles round to the side of the cabin – wipes at the window here and peers inside. The room is plain but well-kept, with a simple bedside table and not one narrow bed but two, clothes trunks near at hand. Jack hesitates a moment on the threshold, for despite all the time spent watching, despite his small thefts, he has not yet dared to venture inside, not anywhere.

It takes a moment of debate before the boy at last squares his shoulders, eases the window carefully open, and climbs within.

The warmth surrounds him, unexpected and strange, and the murmur of voices from the other room is much louder when he stands upon the bedroom's wooden floor. Even here, the smell is rich and savory, redolent of the stew the family shares for the evening meal. Jack finds his eyes flickering toward the door for an instant, finds himself swallowing as his stomach twists, and has to remind himself why he has come.

There is a sock upon the foot of one of the beds – but not, curiously, the other. Jack pauses a moment to wonder why it might be so, but his thoughts are elsewhere, are distracted, and he moves to the trunk at the foot of the unadorned bed without sparing much time to unravel the puzzle. He lifts the lid to examine what lies within – and here, too, is a mystery, for the clothes are a boy's clothes, unsuitable for the only child and too small for her father.

Jack blinks down at them for a moment. On any other day, he might allow his inquisitive nature to take the lead – might make a game of uncovering the secrets here. But the night grows late, and the family will not be distracted forever, and Jack has more important things to do.

There is not much to choose from, but that is not unusual: two shirts, a pair of trousers, a hat of straw, three coarse-knit pairs of socks. Jack helps himself to one of the latter, splits the pair and leaves the single behind. When this night is finished, he promises himself, he will return it, for his feet will not suffer from going uncovered, even in cold such as this.

He closes the trunk and is turning back toward the window when the plate set out upon the bedside table catches his eye. Upon it, there are six thick butter cookies beside a note that begins "Dear St. Nicholas," in a childish scrawl.

Jack freezes; he wavers; he circles back around. "Mother says you like cookies," the letter reads. "I hope you like these."

Jack counts the cookies again. He chews on his lower lip, and he glances toward the door beyond which the family continues their meal, unknowing. "Sorry," Jack tells them, and he takes two of the sweets before he leaves.

It is dark by the time Jack lands near his pond once more, but the moon is wide, just shy of full, and its light casts a silver sheen to see by. He hangs the sock carefully upon the tree in which he sleeps, peels a piece of bark to serve as a plate for the cookies. For an instant, the boy finds himself wondering if his guest really needs the both of them, because it has been a hard winter indeed, and after the smell of cooking stew, the rich, crumbly confections are more tempting than they ought to be.

In the end, he surrenders them both: sets them carefully upon the makeshift dish and arranges them as best he's able. He turns the sweets first one way and then the other in a bid to make them more appealing, wishing all the while that there was more to offer. Next year, perhaps, when he has more time to prepare, he can make his guest a gift in return.

Jack has no paper, nothing with which to leave a proper note, but he has ice aplenty, and so he puts it to use. "Dear St. Nicholas," he scratches into the pond's frozen surface. "Thank you for coming." The boy falters here, unsure what else he wishes to say. He could ask to be awakened, that they might talk for a moment before the man hurries on his way – but the children are adamant that St. Nicholas comes only to those who are sleeping. Would the man be angry, that he sought a way around the rules?

In the end, Jack only adds, "Please visit again, sometime before next year."

He signs his name, but no sooner has he finished than something else occurs to him. Below the message, the boy scratches out a final line: "P.S.," it reads. "I'll get cookies. Or something else if there's anything you like better."

He stands and reads it over – not once but twice, just to be sure. And then, as simply as that, he is done. An enchanting crystalline world, a fairyland of shimmering ice and lush boughs of green, stands before him. He surveys it in the light of the moon for ways that it might be improved – rearranges the placement of the holly, just slightly, and straightens the wreath upon the highest branch.

He knows that he must sleep, for the conversations he has overheard all agree: St. Nicholas will not come for those who remain awake to keep watch. The rush of excitement is upon him, though – for soon his visitor will be here. Sleep seems an impossibility, a demand he cannot possibly meet, and yet all the same Jack knows he must try.

He does not allow the wind to carry him to the branch upon which he spends most of his nights; he will not risk, at this late hour, the decorations he worked so hard to create. He climbs instead, an awkward scramble of gangly limbs, and settles with some effort upon his usual perch.

Looking out upon the pond that is the only home he knows, Jack thinks that it has never looked more inviting than it does in this moment – has never held so much promise as on this peaceful, moonlit Christmas eve. An elated smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and Jack lets it come, feels its warmth spread over him slow and sweet like molasses.

The boy rests his back against the trunk of his tree; he cradles the staff so that it leans upon his shoulder. He forces his eyes to close, though every nerve is alive with anticipation, every muscle tense and expectant. Jack wants to laugh aloud; he wants to call out for the entire world to hear; he wants to dream up a blizzard and dance for the joy of it while flurries of white fall all around him.

"Thank you," he says instead, very quietly, and hopes that the moon will hear.

Sleep takes a long time in coming, and not once before it claims him does Jack think to wonder what present St. Nicholas might bring.

* * *

The morning light is still faint and grey with the oncoming dawn when Jack awakens.

His ribbons of frost have crumpled, here and there, fallen victim in the night to the breeze that rustles through the trees, but Jack hardly notices that they have gone. He destroys what remains of them, himself, when he leaps from his branch with thoughtless eagerness, allowing the wind to rush in and catch him before he hits the ground.

He rounds on the pond with eyes ablaze, searching for a message in return – reaches a hand into the sock , rooting to see if a paper note has been left him, instead – takes in the whole of his home, searching and certain, until he catches sight of the makeshift plate and the two butter cookies that still sit upon it, untouched.

Ecstasy turns to ashes in the space of a single heartbeat. The staff hangs limp from the boy's fingertips, and at the corners of eyes that have gone very wide, the frozen beginnings of tears stand.

It steals over him like a rime of late frost over spring flowers: the conviction, so sudden that it burns, that he has done something wrong. He has missed some vital part, forgotten some necessary component, and St. Nicholas has passed him over.

He does not yell. He does not cry like a child might, with great messy, heaving sobs. He only wraps his arms about himself, very carefully, as though they might hold him together. He only bows his head and swallows against the ache in his throat. He only vows that next year, he will be ready.

Next year, St. Nicholas will have cause to make one extra stop.

And next year, when the ribbons gleam bright in the sun on Christmas morning, when the candles sit waxy and proud, when the dozen brown sugar cookies upon a platter adorned with pine cones all remain uneaten – that is when Jack cries.


End file.
